


Dodo's Conundrum

by buhnebeest



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Ableist Language, Alcohol, Beards, Crack, Explicit Language, Gen, Libo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 06:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1971996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buhnebeest/pseuds/buhnebeest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Brad said, dutifully chugging back his seventeenth shot. “And I say that with full recollection of every other fucked up bullshit you’ve ever spewed in my presence, which is regrettably plentiful.”</p>
<p>Or, well, that was what he meant to say, but what actually came out was: “That’s genius, you’re a genius,” which was why Ray Person was his friend. When drunk, Brad’s wires crossed in the worst possible way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dodo's Conundrum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [noeon (noe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noe/gifts).



> Based on [this picture](http://generation-kill.livejournal.com/851400.html) posted at the lj comm, which you should look at because it's delightful.

“Gentlemen,” intoned the LT, with the gravitas of a man bearing the terrible burden of sending his men into circumstances beyond his control. “Tonight, we honor the storied esteem of our great brothers-in-arms. Tonight, we continue the traditions of our predecessors, and put our courage and perseverance to the ultimate test. Tonight, we will discover the true meaning of what it entails to be a Recon Marine!”  
  
“Fuck yeah,” whispered Stafford, loudly enough to be heard throughout a 15-mile radius. He and his fellow Marines brimmed with the kind of primal excitement only induced in man by such momentous events as imminent battle, victory over certain death and the affirmation of one’s immortality; glimpses of well-endowed women wearing tiny scraps of clothing.   
  
“Some of us may not make it,” continued the LT gravely, which statement was met with the kind of scoffing bravado one might expect from a nation’s most elite selection of bloodthirsty warriors, “but know that I am proud to join you all on this most hallow of missions, and I am assured that we, all of us, will do our country proud in turn. Tonight, we prove our worth as Recon Marines! Tonight, we prove our worth as men! Tonight, we drink tequila in every bar from here to _The Naked Turtle_!   
  
“Tonight, we run the Gauntlet!”  
  
In a barely respectable dive bar somewhere in Sidney, Australia, twenty-one Marines burst out in jubilant cheers.

  
*****

  
“That is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Brad said, dutifully chugging back his seventeenth shot. “And I say that with full recollection of every other fucked up bullshit you’ve ever spewed in my presence, which is regrettably plentiful.”

Or, well, that was what he meant to say, but what actually came out was: “That’s genius, you’re a genius,” which was why Ray Person was his friend. When drunk, Brad’s wires crossed in the worst possible way.

“ _You’re_ a genius!” Ray screeched, laughing like a demented hyena. Brad couldn't feel his face, but he imagined he must be grinning as well.

“You’re both retarded,” slurred Poke, who was attempting to bleach his brain with more tequila. So much tequila. Why. “How would you even hook it up? There’s… physics. Involved.”

“Voodoo, man,” said Ray. “Voodoo dildos. Voodildos. Ha!”

“That’s. Racist.” Poke said reflexively, staring at his hands. He was actually starting to consider it. But what if Gina used it in the middle of a firefight? It just wasn't practical in the long run. It was important to communicate during sex. That was definitely A Thing.

“Like, can you imagine it? If my dick was psychically linked to my girlfriend’s dildo, holy shit.” Ray paused, like the enormity of his own genius had left him speechless, which was definitely a first. “Oh my god, oh my god.”

While Ray Person contemplated whether a psychic link to his girlfriend’s dildo meant that he would be jerking off said dildo during every single one of his combat jacks (and if that, in turn, was gay), one lone Marine by the name of Rudy Reyes wondered if enough time had passed for him to take off his shirt without anyone noticing.

There was no comment. Enough time had passed.

   
*****

 

This was Brad’s sixth Gauntlet, by virtue of it being his sixth time on libo in Australia. This was considered an achievement on par with his legendary diving records and sniper scores; the fact that there was barely any skill involved in getting blind drunk while stumbling through the barcrawl from Hell was not considered relevant. The Gauntlet was sacred.

By the laws of averages, by now he was admittedly due an injury of some kind, but as far as animal attacks went he’d have preferred a bear or an alligator or a tiger. Something badass.

“Do you think he’s dead?” whispered a voice of mysterious origin. It spoke off-beat to the pounding in Brad’s temple.

“Don’t be stupid, fool, Iceman can’t be killed by no goddamn bird.”

“I think it would be the fall that killed him, technically.”

“Lilley! Lilley, you beautiful motherfucker, did you film that?”

“What the fuck did that stupid asshole do?”

“Brad tried to climb the ostrich, Doc. It was magical.”

“The ostrich was magical?”

“You stupid motherfucker, Trombley, I swear to God—”

Before Brad could interject that this was clearly not going anywhere—and that they should’ve known that Brad, when presented with an ostrich, would attempt to ride it, so fuck them anyway—Ray threw himself to his knees by Brad’s side and grabbed his shirtfront, eyes wide and dramatic and slightly bloodshot. “Brad, don’t look into the light! Don’t you know Johnny Cash was nearly killed by an ostrich?! Fuck!”

Brad closed his eyes, praying for patience. “For fuck’s sake, Ray, that is exactly the kind of backwater-hick, country bullshit trivia I never want to have to waste brain cells on. Fuck—fuck you.”

On his other side the LT appeared, looking drunk and worried and about fourteen years old in his preppy white Boy Scout linen shirt and spray-on gingery neck-beard. Somebody fucking better teach the LT how to use a razor before the night was out.

“Are you okay?” the LT asked, peering into Brad’s eyes as if he might magically sprout the ability to diagnose brain damage in there.

“Yes,” said Brad, and sat up. This did not help the pounding in his temple.

“Told you, man, he’s fine. Ice cold.”

“Your mom’s ice cold.”

“Shut up, douchebag.”

Brad sighed and got up. Looking at his platoon, he had the sinking feeling that none of them would be able to teach the LT anything, not even in six Gauntlets. What a bunch of retards.

“Rudy!” he called, scratching at his own stubble. “Put on a goddamn shirt.”

 

 


End file.
